Anamnesis
by q-siam
Summary: Set immediately after 4x17, It's a Terrible Life. Sam doesn't remember.


Zachariah vanishes in the blink of an eye, leaving Dean alone in the wide office with only the occasional beep or ring to break the silence.

When he eventually makes his way toward the elevator, he realizes that he doesn't have his real phone on him and Sam probably doesn't either, so he stops on Sam's floor. He frowns, though, when a quick glance of the room shows no sign of his brother. There's a mess at his desk and people milling about in clusters, whispering. It's pretty obvious Sam is gone so there's no point in sticking around.

Dean dreads having to look for him. They always set up meeting places, but they didn't exactly have time to plan here and the default is Bobby's place, a good fourteen hours away.

Luckily, Sam is sitting on the curb right outside the building with a faraway look in his eyes, yellow polo looking out of place now that he knows what he's looking for. He doesn't look at Dean when he sits beside him, just keeps his face turned a little to the side, eyes locked on a car he probably can't really see right now. Dean can understand the feeling.

There are a few moments of them sitting there like that, side-by-side, just like it's always been (or had always been, before, Dean realizes, not recently).

It's Sam who speaks first, with quiet, hopeful, "Dean."

Dean turns to focus on Sam's face, still turned away from him. He doesn't say anything. Just waits.

"I still want to do it."

Of all the things Dean had expected out of his brother's mouth, this hadn't been it. Because, _yeah_, of course they were still gonna do it. Didn't have much choice, actually, apocalypse and all. There wasn't any question.

"With you, too, even though I know you don't want it. It just feels right."

Sam is apparently completely oblivious of Dean's shock and starts talking faster, finally looking at him, desperate to convince him for some reason.

"We're both really good at it. I wanna make a difference, Dean, for once in my life. I, uh, I already quit. This is something I have to do."

His eyes are shining and determined when he finally finishes.

Dean only says, "Sammy? Are you all right?"

This seems to snap him out of it, face filling with aggravation. "I thought I told you not to call me that."

Dean's eyes widen as he realizes that, oh God, Sammy doesn't remember. Doesn't remember and wouldn't believe Dean if he told him the truth. Dean groans and slides a hand over his face before responding. "Sorry. I could really use a drink."

Which is, apparently, a suggestion Sam Wesson can get on board with which is why an hour later they're slouching over a bar, half leaning against each other, Sam rambling about why Dean should help. Dean just listens because he can't think of what else to do until an angel shows up (which could take a while, if past encounters were anything to go on.)

"An-and, no, listen," he's been saying things in this vein over and over again, as if to prevent Dean from interrupting him, even though Dean hasn't shown any sign of speaking again, "if we, if you fought these, these ghosts and things with me, we would be heroes." He's also been saying things like this, like they'd even get any recognition, not like he would know.

"And it's the only way could be together."

Dean's head snaps in his direction. That was a first.

Sam looks guilty, like he hadn't meant to say that out loud but like he couldn't bring himself to regret it, giggling nervously, drunkenly.

"What are you talking about?" Dean's voice feels weak in his own throat.

There's a struggle playing itself out in Sam's eyes and Dean is mesmerized. He'd never even thought about... this. His own words from just days again start bouncing around his brain. He'd thought that Sam was hitting on him back then, in the elevator. There was no way he'd been right. Couldn't be. Because this was his baby brother and even without their own memories it wasn't possible for them to feel _that_ way about each other. Right?

He doesn't move though, doesn't jerk away like he thinks he should, when Sam drops a hand on his chest with a resolved face. He turns more on the barstool, knee hitting the inside of Dean's thigh, spinning him until they face each other. He leans in so close that when he says, "I mean, I haven't stopped thinking about this since I first saw you. Haven't stopped thinking about _us_," his breath plays heavily against Dean's cheeks, the strong scent of alcohol not entirely unpleasant when the effect of it still thrums through Dean's veins. He sees it coming, couldn't mistake Sam's intentions if he wanted to (which he's not entirely convinced he doesn't), but he can't move.

It shouldn't feels this good to let his little brother press sloppily against him, but when Dean finally pulls away, it's not him coming to his senses. It's him feeling the disgusted stares of some of the patrons and the realization that if they stay here like this for too long they'd probably be arrested for indecent exposure. Because, for whatever reason, this feels good. And Dean wants it, wants Sam, no matter how wrong it is.

So he drags him to a cheap motel and winces for the first time at the look he gets when he asks for two queens (out of habit.)

When he wakes up, they're in different beds. Sam is already awake, brushing his teeth in front of the TV, looking normal again in his own clothes. Dean wonders where he got them, because they hadn't made any extra stops last night.

"Dea'," he starts, not quite able to make the 'n' sound around his toothbrush, "wha' happ'ned? Wiff the com'any? I can' 'member any'hing."

Dean stares at him at him with wide eyes and slowly lifts his hand up to pinch his cheek. There's no way he's getting out of this one that easily. He winces at the sting and glares at the offending fingers as if he hadn't just told them to do it.

Sam moves into the bathroom and finishes up. When he comes back he sends a worried glance Dean's way. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Dean answers, even though he doesn't feel okay. Not at all. "Yeah, I'm fine."


End file.
